


visitation of the ghost

by cjmasim



Category: Hockey RPF
Genre: (but he comes back as a ghost so it's okay), Angst with a Happy Ending, Character Death, Established Relationship, Ghosts, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-12
Updated: 2018-07-12
Packaged: 2019-06-09 04:47:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,244
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15259755
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cjmasim/pseuds/cjmasim
Summary: It's been four months since Patrice died.





	visitation of the ghost

**Author's Note:**

  * For [blindbatalex](https://archiveofourown.org/users/blindbatalex/gifts).



> Okay, so this was supposed to be a quick fic in response to [this prompt on tumblr](https://cjmasim.tumblr.com/post/175791494971), specifically the "warmth/shivering" one. It got a _little_ bit out of hand, so I just posted it here. Thank you Alex for the prompt!  <3
> 
> Title from The Brobecks because that's what I listened to while writing this. 
> 
> If you or someone you know personally is in this fic, turn away now. 
> 
> Enjoy!

It’s been four months since Brad has been to the apartment. After the end of the playoffs – after the accident – he had cleaned out his locker and gone back to Halifax without saying a word to the media. He had cancelled their vacations, his plans with his friends and teammates, his engagements with the community and spent the summer wallowing at his parents’ house. He had gone to Quebec for the funeral, too, but that was a blur – he had felt numb, detached, like it was just a bad dream.

It hadn’t been, of course. It’s been four months since Patrice died, and that hasn’t changed. Nothing has changed, really, other than Patrice not being there: the team didn’t make any major trades or free agency moves, relying on organizational depth to fill the hole left on their first line, Brad still lives in their apartment, the season is still _happening_ without Patrice. All that’s really different is that, for the first time in his life, Brad isn’t looking forward to the new season. He isn’t hopeful that this will be “their year”, or even just that it’ll be a fun season, because he knows it won’t. It won’t be “their year”, never will be again, and he’ll never be able to enjoy the sport the way he used to without Patrice by his side. He had considered retiring, but knows that hockey is the only thing that might get him to feel something again.

He had considered moving, too, but their – _his_ – apartment holds too many memories that he isn’t ready to let go of. Now that he’s here, he can see that everything is the same as he’d left it when he left for his flight back home. Pictures from the cup win, their wedding, and everything in between still line the walls. Patrice’s jacket still hangs from the coat rack; a pair of his more casual shoes still rest underneath. His wedding ring still lies on the counter, haphazardly discarded after the fight that had caused him to walk out that night. There are only two things that have changed: one, Patrice isn’t there, and two, it’s really, _really_ cold.

The coldness comes as a surprise to Brad. Patrice had always liked to keep the thermostat no lower than 70, and with all the chaos that surrounded the incident, Brad had never even thought of changing it. Looking at the thermostat, he can see that it’s set to 73 – a perfectly standard temperature for their apartment, yet it feels so cold. If it weren’t August, Brad would question whether he accidentally left a window open. He’s shivering, in his tank top and shorts. He goes to grab his winter coat off the coat rack, figuring it’s a good temporary solution while he figures out why the hell it’s so cold, when he sees something that sends ice down his veins. 

“No,” he whispers to himself. “You’re not real.”

Patrice walks over to him – or does he glide? Brad really isn’t sure, but it doesn’t matter, anyway, because this _is not real_. It can’t be. 

“Of course I’m real,” he says, and it sounds just like him, the same soft, patient voice he always uses when he’s been hurt, and Brad suddenly feels guilty, which is ridiculous, because this isn’t Patrice, couldn’t possibly be Patrice. “I’ve been waiting for you,” not–Patrice says.

“You’re not real,” Brad repeats. “You’re dead. I saw –“ his voice catches, and he swallows, willing himself to stay calm, not to cry. “I saw your body,” he whispers.

Patrice – no, _not_ Patrice – reaches a hand toward him, placing it gently on his face, and Brad feels only a chill. “I never said I was alive,” Patrice says softly. “But I am real.”

“So you’re a ghost,” Brad says, and Patrice nods.

“I’ve been waiting for you,” he repeats. “I knew you hadn’t moved, but I was beginning to wonder if you’d ever come back. I forgive you, you know.”

“You’re – you promise it’s really you?” Brad asks, feeling vulnerable, even though he knows that a hallucination would probably just lie to him. 

“I promise,” Patrice says, looking Brad in the eye, and it feels so incredibly real, even though Brad knows it can’t be. 

“Prove it,” Brad whispers. 

With one more look, Patrice disappears, and Brad blinks in shock at how quickly he’s gone. After a moment of confusion, he notices that the cold is gone. The apartment is warm, almost warmer than Brad likes it, which is exactly how it should feel according to the thermostat. Soon, Patrice reappears, just as suddenly as he had left, and with absolutely no warning. As soon as he does, the room gets cold again, and Brad shivers.

“Holy shit,” he breathes. “You are real.”

–

As the months pass, Patrice remains in their apartment. He tells Brad that his soul must be tied to an object in the apartment – his wedding ring, perhaps, since he had taken it off after the fight. Brad doesn’t care too much about the finer details; all that matters is that Patrice is still with him, but only in the apartment.

He’s never going to move. 

The season has been better than Brad had hoped back in August. They still don’t have a true number one center, probably won’t for a few years, but they’re winning games, even have a real shot at the playoffs. They won’t win the cup, but not dwelling in the basement keeps the mood on the team lighter, helps them move forward.

Brad hasn’t told anyone about Patrice. By the time he’d discovered him, it had already been so long since his death; the others had already begun to heal, and besides, Patrice _is_ still dead. If he were to tell any of his teammates, they might even think, as Brad had at first, that Patrice was just a hallucination. It was better to keep Patrice to himself, and Patrice seems to agree. He talks about his old teammates – has to, to be able to discuss the games with Brad – but he’s content not to see them, and makes himself scarce whenever they come over. Once, he tells Brad that the only reason he’s here, a ghost, is because of unfinished business with Brad, though he reassures him that he doesn’t have to move on until he wants to. 

It’s been eleven months since Patrice died, and every night he isn’t away on a road trip, Brad comes home to find the love of his life waiting for him. He’s gotten used to the cold, has learned to sleep only in fleece pajamas with several blankets, even in the warmer months. He hardly even feels it anymore. Those four months without him, Brad had thought he was never going to see Patrice again. Even in the summer heat, he had felt cold, trying to accept that he would be alone for the rest of his life, that he would never get the chance to make things right. Now, even with the temperature in his apartment rarely reaching 50, even as his body shivers, Patrice’s arms around him making him even colder, Brad is warm. 

Not physically, of course – Zdeno expresses his concern about the increased frequency of Brad’s colds, especially as winter fades into spring – but in his heart. Brad knows that Patrice is with him, will always be with him, and as long as he has Patrice, nothing else matters. 

**Author's Note:**

> Feel free to follow me on [tumblr](http://www.cjmasim.tumblr.com/)!


End file.
